


If I Jump Let Me Sink

by Waffle-o (XylB)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Angst, FAHC, GTA Universe, Happy Ending, M/M, some depictions of violence but I wouldn't say graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 04:39:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14128248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XylB/pseuds/Waffle-o
Summary: Four times the crew left Jeremy for dead and the one time they didn't.(Title is from "Celestica" by The Anix.)





	If I Jump Let Me Sink

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an idea from the lovely [Milla](http://millacm.tumblr.com).

The Fakes, Jeremy is rapidly discovering, are very fast-paced, indeed very much like any crew Jeremy’s been part of, live-fast-don’t-die, but. They’re not exactly – the sort of fast Jeremy expected. At all. Ever.

An example that Jeremy can think of off of the top of his head is this moment right now, where they’re all in the armoury to gather weapons for a quick job and he’s still completely fucking _lost_ , used to bosses just lining employees up and assigning weapons, ammo, jobs, responsibilities, nothing but steel and iron in their eyes and their words, quick to lash like a whip.

The Fakes? Are _chaos_ in comparison. Jeremy’s only been with them a month but fucking hell, he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to _this_. It’s his first job with them, first time _in action_ with them, all of them, and he was so sure that the moment they got down here Geoff – or maybe Jack – would be handing out weapons and roles with the same steel voice as Jeremy’s last boss.

Nope. Nope, not that at all – instead of any semblance of order, apparently getting weapons is just a free-for-all, no assignments, nada, nothing. Jeremy’s still fiddling about with the pistol and MG he picked up, loading them with ammo while the others trade off on racks of guns, shouting over each other in five different conversations - “Hey, pass me that!” “Heads up!” and a pistol goes sailing through the air to land neatly in Michael hand; “Well there’s more grenades – ” “No grenades for you, Gavin – Ryan, do you need these?” “Thanks, Jack.” – and it’s startlingly dizzying, the strap and rip of Velcro on body armour intermingled with loud laughter and rowdy banter.

Although if Jeremy takes a mental step back, and holsters the pistol and really _looks_ , he can see they’re as seamless as any other well-oiled crew. Trading jokes and quips along with weapons and protection, grabbing exactly what they know they need and smoothly tossing ammo clips to each other across the room without hitting anybody in the head. Well, one bounces off Gavin’s ass but the burst of laughter that erupts from everybody makes Jeremy think that Gavin doesn’t mind, even if he does cuss out Michael afterwards.

“Hey, meet us out when you’re done, yeah?” Geoff asks as he clap a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder, startling him. Some of the others are already shuffling out – Michael and Gavin bickering playfully, Jack poking fun at Ryan’s trouble with thigh holsters that Ryan meets with a rude gesture – and Jeremy still hasn’t loaded his second gun.

“Yeah, boss,” Jeremy says. Geoff grins and pats his shoulder before moving on, snagging an armour vest from the wall and strapping it on.

Geoff drags the other two out with a fond beckoning, and doesn’t call for Jeremy. They leave with laughter, and friendly glances to him, but Jeremy doesn’t return them, instead focusing on rummaging through the ammo drawer.

In the shocking silence after the crew’s exit, Jeremy realises Michael’s taken all the MG clips.

Well, fuck.

\-- 

Despite Jeremy’s lack of a second gun, the job goes smoothly enough – get in, get out, run from the cops in four different directions and regroup at the penthouse to celebrate. The standard modus operandi for the Fakes, it seems, and Jeremy’s first celebration with them.

It’s about as rowdy as Jeremy imagined, except there’s no strippers or drugs – well, none except the painkillers Ryan takes for his bruised knuckles. But it’s – Jeremy hesitates to say _fun_ , but – it _is_. Jack and Michael sort out giant pitchers of beer and mixed drinks and Gavin immediately busts out crisps, plopping down beside Jeremy on the giant sofa to offer him some. Geoff and Ryan don’t drink, Jeremy finds, but certainly mess about as much as the others – a playful argument rises between Ryan and Jack about some old film series Jeremy’s never heard of, and Geoff’s poking endless fun at Gavin, who giggles and tosses a stray bouncy ball at Geoff’s chest – oh yes, and that’s another thing Jeremy never asked about, the sheer amount of bouncy balls and _Moonballs_ lying about the penthouse. He suspects they have something to do with the dented walls behind the dining area.

Michael sits down on the other side of Jeremy with a drink for him, pushing it into his hand and clinking the glasses together before drinking – he glances down at Jeremy’s chest with a slight frown, nudging his shoulder when he speaks.

“Hey, what’s up with the armour? We’re safe in here, y’know,” Michael says, gesturing at Jeremy’s chest with his drink. Jeremy panics quietly, lifting a hand to zip up his hoodie the last inch so Michael can’t stare at his body armour anymore.

“Old habits,” Jeremy says carefully, swirling his glass. Michael studies him for a moment longer but drops the subject with a shrug, turning to draw Gavin into conversation across Jeremy, drags Jeremy into talking as well and before long Jeremy forgets about his panic, falling to the wayside in favour for pleasant drunken joking with a crew that’s become so familiar to him in only a few weeks

\-- 

Jeremy keeps the body armour on as much as he can, hiding it under hoodies and jackets and simply shrugging it off if anyone ever asks, wears it on the off-chance that something _happens_.

He notices the others don’t always wear it on jobs, and it baffles him how they can be so easily, _stupidly_ confident without it, with just the clothes on their back and the guns in their hands and Jeremy’s never known that sort of freedom, the easy trust that comes from being indisposable.

Jeremy’s always been disposable. That’s always been the motto of his old crews – just a mercenary, just muscle, staying alive is on your terms and if you get hurt we’ll leave you for dead and move on. Cold. Detached. Survival is your responsibility, not ours.

And so, the armour. Because even if he does get left behind on a job gone wrong, he’s not fucking _dying_ for it, not just letting them leave him bleeding out in the middle of a road. He’s seen it happen too many times. He’s a survivor. He didn’t get this fucking far with _trust_.

\-- 

Jeremy doesn’t remember much about the previous night but he knows he’s got the headache of the fucking _century_ and his throat is dry like sandpaper – he tries opening his eyes and even the muted sunlight behind curtain makes his head _throb_ , pulsing with panging, consuming pain. He groans pathetically and presses his face to the cushion under his face, curling up more on the sofa.

“You awake?” Someone asks – Jeremy cracks an eye open to see Geoff standing behind the L of the sofa, rubbing his chin.

“What happened?” Jeremy croaks. “Ugh, my _head_.”

Geoff laughs quietly and walks around to sit down on the L, pulling out his phone.

“Yeah, they just left you for dead,” he jokes. “Kept going.”

Jeremy groans again.

“I think they stopped at Amnesia? Only got through a few bars,” Geoff continues. He snickers. “More than you, anyway, you didn’t even leave the penthouse.”

Jeremy waves a hand in Geoff’s general direction to tell him to shut up and Geoff laughs, his eyes lifting to somewhere behind Jeremy.

As Jeremy watches with one eye, Ryan appears with plates of breakfast, handing one to Geoff and reaching over to lay his own on the table, then sets down a smaller plat of less food in front of Jeremy, to his surprise.

“Here,” Ryan says, and suddenly his hand is on Jeremy’s, pressing a couple pills into it and a glass of water hovering nearby as Jeremy reorients himself, slowly sitting up more to take the painkillers and sip the water – he lies down before his head can throb again, and Ryan laughs quietly before walking around to sit beside Geoff.

They stay, thankfully, quiet, only the scrape of cutlery and soft murmuring between them as they scroll through something on Geoff’s phone, casting glances towards Jeremy now and then and smiling back when he looks at them, still pathetically curled up although he thinks the ache in his head is finally dulling.

Jeremy pushes himself up to sit with a grunt, his head swimming a little before he blinks and refocuses on the plate on the table. Geoff and Ryan stay even after they’re finished, the low cadence of their new conversation lulling Jeremy into a comforting swing of things, and before he knows it he’s joining in, smiling whenever they laugh at something he says.

He almost forgets he’s still wearing the armour.

\-- 

“What? No, no!” Jeremy cries, uselessly smashing the right trigger on his controller – Gavin laughs but a moment later gets sniped in the leg in-game and Jack’s riotous laughter dissolves into yelling as Ryan starts a vicious stabbing on him and Gavin runs for cover.

“Get fucked!” Michael shouts, and pulls out a machine gun to mow down the street in-game. Jeremy dives for cover behind a car and shuffles uselessly through his weapon wheel, frantically trying to locate the course source of the other bullets raining down on him.

Jeremy is discovering, very swiftly, that however chaotic and loud the Fakes are in real life doesn’t even _compare_ to the chaos of playing _video games_ with them. Everything is murderous intent and the main goal seems to be who can make Geoff lose his mind the fastest and they’re all crowded together on one side of the sofa, elbows crashing into ribs and shoulders bumping shoulders – Jeremy’s arm catches against Michael again and on the far right he hears Ryan cry out and collapse into giggling, but he can’t keep track of Ryan’s part of the split-screen and just hopes that evil giggling isn’t aimed towards _him_. By Geoff’s shriek a moment later, it isn’t.

“We gotta move on to the next area!” Jack shouts, and Michael yells a war cry to go after his character.

“Well, one of us has to die for that!” Ryan points out.

“It’s not gonna be me,” Jeremy mutter.s

“It’ll be Gavin,” Michael says confidently, and Gavin yelps in protest.

“Oi, why me? Why’ll it be me, Michael?”

“Because I’m gonna fucking shank you.”

“Michael!”

And chaos continues for a few more minutes, all of them trapped in this little city maze and trying desperately to kill off someone – it’s a crew favourite, apparently, this game, a sort of all-in fighting thing where the maps change every time someone dies, with other challenges added each time to make it harder until it comes down to two people, and whoever lives is the winner.

“Nononono not me!” Geoff screams, and more shouting erupts from that side of the sofa, to Jeremy’s delight. He’s been hiding quietly with Michael for a few minutes, hoping that no one will find their little hidey-hole –

Jeremy’s character jolts out of hiding with the force of the bullets that suddenly _rip_ through him and Jeremy jumps and tries to fight and run at the same time and –

His screen goes black with his death and Gavin crows triumphantly as the other screens switch to loading, all of them relaxing for a second. Jeremy slumps back against the sofa panting, his heart beating _way_ too fast for that.

“Gotcha, Lil J!” Gavin teases, leaning over to smile at him.

“Why me!” Jeremy cries, but he can’t help laughing with them. “I did nothing!”

“Yes you did, you tried to shoot me down,” Gavin counters.

“Because you’re _guilty_!” Geoff adds, nonsensically, and Michael laughs so hard he doubles over.

“You just left me for dead!” Jeremy exclaims as the next map starts up, countdowns flashing on every screen but his, which is still black.

“Name of the game!” Michael says. “Don’t worry, it’s usually Gavin who’s left.”

“Not this time, _bitch_.”

“Oh, it’ll be you this time,” Michael assures him. “It will.”

\-- 

“Okay, everyone ready?!” Geoff yells as he tugs his helmet on, twisting from his straddle on the his bike to look at them all. A chorus of _yes_ es holler back at him and he nods, holding up a little remote.

“I’m gonna set the traffic timer!” He shouts over the wind. “And on green you go!”

“No, really?!” Michael calls, and Geoff flips him off.

Jeremy’s never done a real life race before – not like _this_ , anyhow – he’s done some scrappy, backstreet ones back in his earlier days, quick bets for easy cash and sometimes for the thrill of it. But this is a whole new ballpark – for one, it’s a _friendly_ race, not for cash or gambling or any other ulterior motives other than the fun of it. The rules are simple: they all have the same make of motorbike, all helmets, no weapons, no contact, no calling the cops on Geoff in the middle of the race – that last rule is given with a pointed look at Ryan, who shrugs.

And somewhat surprising, to Jeremy at least, is that he has no doubt that it’ll be a clean race. No one’ll shoot his tyre out and send him flying off the bike, no one’ll bash into his side and send him skidding out with road rash, no one’ll sabotage him, no one’ll _hurt_ him. It’s – odd, to have that sort of firm, tentative trust, but Jeremy holds onto it carefully, treasuring it in a little place inside of him.

“Okay, gentlemen, start your engines!” Geoff calls, and the little road comes alive with the sound of growling metal, revving engines that kick up puffs of air into Jeremy’s face and make the civilians nearby shriek with surprise.

Oh yeah, and they’re absolutely not being subtle about this. In true Fakes fashion, they’re holding a highly illegal streetrace in broad fucking daylight. In Vespucci, no less, starting out right next to the beach, preparing to race through rush hour traffic as the sun dips lower and lower towards the horizon.

In some sort of miracle, the cops haven’t been called yet.

Ryan’s bike settles into a low growling beside Jeremy and Jeremy starts his own engine up with a ferocious roar as Geoff clicks the timer on and they all get into position.

And then Jeremy twists the handle and the engine sharply sputters out – panicked, he tries kicking it up again but to no avail, stammering and coughing uselessly as the body shudders between his legs and the engine dies with a sad little clank.

“No – wait – _fuck_!” Jeremy shouts, and the crew start laughing around him, all of them looking as he uselessly tries to start his bike up – but it’s not unkind laughter, it’s the sort of teasing Jeremy might give them in return had this happened to one of them, but it’s _him_ and there’s no way he’ll win if his _bike_ isn’t working.

“Timer’s already going,” Ryan tells him helpfully, and Jeremy flips him off, smashing his hand against the kickstart to try and pump his engine up again.

The light turns green and Jeremy still isn’t moving – but the rest of them are, zipping past with an “Eat shit!” yell from Michael on the way.

“Assholes!” Jeremy calls as they leave him in the proverbial and literal dust, but he doesn’t mean it.

With a few more revs, and far too many minutes later, the engine finally growls to life, steady and strong under Jeremy and his sigh of relief is drowned out by the crowd’s applause as he zooms off to hopefully catch up to his crew.

\-- 

Jeremy loses _badly_. He pulls up to the finish line way past everyone else, while they’re all lounging around outside the bar they finish next to, drinking and chatting amiably amongst themselves as Jeremy parks. Ryan lifts his arm to wave him over, easily making space for him to settle in beside them as Jack offers him a drink, one that Jeremy takes and promptly downs half of while Gavin snickers beside him, hooking an arm around his shoulders.

“Sorry to leave you for dead there, Lil J,” he says. “But you got here eventually, yeah?”

“Who won?” Jeremy asks, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Jack,” Ryan says from his other side, planting a hand on the table behind Jeremy and leaning in to speak over the din of other patrons.

“Bloody bet on ‘imself as well, didn’t he?” Gavin says, laughing at the way Jeremy shakes his head with a smile, enjoying perhaps a little too much how easily he’s sandwiched between Gavin and Ryan, his arm pressed up to Ryan’s shoulder and far too little space between them, but well. Who can fault Jeremy for taking every inch he can get.

\-- 

It’s a bright, hot, and spectacularly sunny day in Los Santos, stifling even in the open-door arcade they’re in, crowded around while Geoff and Michael snap air hockey pucks at each other. Loser switches out for another member of the crew.

Jeremy coughs and tugs on his shirt collar again – maybe the armour was a mistake, because with it he needs a hoodie, and he’s boiling under all the layers, sweat gathering under his arms and splotched over his back and it’s getting hard to breathe, quite honestly, in the stuffy atmosphere of the arcade.

“I, uh, I need some fresh air,” Jeremy says to Ryan, clearing his throat again when Ryan shoots him a worried look. He cocks an eyebrow – _are you okay?_ – and Jeremy nods, glancing over at the rest of the crew, all paying attention to the air hockey.

Ryan nods in return and watches while Jeremy quietly steps away from the little group, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he reaches the outside, breathing in the cool, salty air of the sea. Tourists shriek and laugh around him, playing at the rigged stalls and finding ice cream to cool down, queueing up for rides and photobooths. The rollercoaster rushes above Jeremy and he looks up at it, following it around the track for a bit before his eyes are drawn to the shiny metal of the Ferris wheel – he lifts a hand to shade his eyes as he looks up at it. The queue’s short, and it would give him something to do, he thinks, and the buckets have a little canopy for shade.

And it’s not _that_ high, he tells himself as he walks towards the queue for it, slotting in behind a woman and her son. His mouth twists as he looks up at the top bucket, slowly inching around until it’s scraping the ground in front of the woman, the previous customers exiting before they get in.

“Are you with her?” The attendant asks, breaking Jeremy from his reverie.

“Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head as the attendant locks the gate.

The next bucket swings to a halt in front of Jeremy and the attendant waves him in, wishing him a nice ride as he locks the gate and backs up to pull the lever again – Jeremy’s heart jumps into his throat when it starts moving, but he just holds on to the little railings inside and tells himself it’s fine, it’s perfectly fine. For fuck’s sake, he’s a wanted criminal, he’s managed cop chases in choppers, he can handle a little Ferris wheel.

The view is nice, he can admit, even if he’s white-knuckling the railing, and he’s thankful for the shade on the back of his neck. The ocean really is quite pretty up here, lapping at the gold-white sands and filled with beachgoers, tropical lilos and giant beach balls floating about between swimmers.

The neon lights of the arcade draw Jeremys eye back to the pier, to the noisy crowd below and the flashing lights and _oh he’s far up_ – Jeremy snaps his head back up, determinedly not looking down as his bucket rises up to the peak, swinging a little and it’ll be fine, he tells himself, he’ll be going down in no time, he’s safe, it’s fine, and he hasn’t even realised he’s closed his eyes.

And then the wheel stops. Jeremy’s eyes fly open to find himself perched at the very top, looking out on the ocean and the beach and the pier and the city and when the PA system in the buckets crackles to life he almost starts hyperventilating.

“Hey folks – a little stop to appreciate the view while we sort out something. If you look behind you, towards Vinewood, you’ll see the military air training going on in a few minutes!”

And it crackles off – Jeremy dares to peer over the side and sees the wheel attendant and security arguing loudly about something and dizziness hits him all over again from the sight of the _drop_.

He resolutely ignores the creaking of the bucket as it swings.

Jeremy gulps and scoots back to the middle – but his eyes catch a flash of Hawaiian and he finds the crew strolling out of the arcade, headed _away_ from him – unbidden panic shoots through him all of a sudden, that he never told them where he was going, that they probably think he just _left_ and he knows it’s childish to not want to be left behind on a damn _Ferri_ s wheel but he made the mistake of riding said damn Ferris wheel and he doesn’t want to have to find a ride home as well –

The crew stop, thankfully, at food stalls, and relief blooms in Jeremy’s chest again, refreshing under the suffocating layers of armour and hoodie. Although maybe they’ll move on, he thinks, and fear grips him again –

Michael turns around and waves up at him, shading his eyes with his other hand.

Jeremy jerks back, startled, and the bucket swings all over again but Michael just laughs and points at him, waves again. Ryan turns around and hands hotdog to Michael as he takes a bite out of his own, squinting up at Jeremy. God, they look so _small_ from where Jeremy is, but he can see familiar smiles on the others’ faces as they laugh amongst each other, all glancing up at him occasionally.

Ryan takes his phone out and taps on it, hotdog held carefully between his teeth as he types. Jeremy’s pocket buzzes a moment later and he nearly jumps right out of the bucket, adrenaline shooting way too close to his heart for his liking. His fingers are trembling a little when he fumbles it out.

_Enjoying the view?_

Jeremy snorts and looks down at Ryan again, shares a smile with him while Michael’s twisting to get a drink.

> _Thought you left me for dead up here_

This time, Jeremy stays focused on his phone, a welcome distraction from the terrifying thought of how high off the ground he is.

_Nah, you won’t die up there_

> _You never know_

_Maybe die of boredom_

> _You’d leave me to die of boredom up here?_

_Well, leave you a little_

Jeremy giggles to himself – hardly even notices the ride creaking into movement again except for how the bucket swings gently.

> _Asshol_ _e_

_Yeah, asshole who got lunch for you when you get down_

Jeremy laughs openly at that, glancing up briefly only to be met with the view of the slowly approaching pier lights, and the relief that settles in him almost makes him drop the phone.

And when he’s back on solid ground – or as solid as a pier can be – he resolves to keep his future attempts for shade as close to sea level as he can.

\-- 

Jeremy has learnt a couple things in his few months with the Fakes so far.

1\. They always get into firefights

2\. _They always get into firefights_

Jeremy doesn’t know if it’s luck or chance but he’s hoping it’s neither this time, except usually the firefights tip in the favour of the Fakes and they usually _win_.

Except this time they’re a little – burnt out, Jeremy would joke, but it’s hard to joke when they’re scattered across five different streets with two different federal units pressing down on them and Jeremy hasn’t seen another member of the Fakes for five minutes.

He’s hiding out in an alley, peeking out to try and shoot the cops down the road, slamming his back to the wall to reload and peering out again to fire but they’re too far away for SMG accuracy, when he finally sees someone else, and it’s Ryan, barreling out from the alleyway across the street to dive for cover behind the flipped car in the middle of the road, only a few paces from Jeremy but with how many bullets have scraped his little brick corner, he’s not fucking daring to dash there.

Ryan shoots him a thumbs up as he catches his breath, leaning against the underside of the car on its side as he fiddles with his rocket launcher, loading in another rocket and grunting when he twists to kneel.

Jeremy pulls back to reload again and Ryan peers over the edge of the car to fire – with a great big bang and a recoil that Ryan neatly absorbs, a rocket shoots out to the SWAT vehicles gathered down the road, but it doesn’t stop the hail of bullets that follows immediately afterwards, peppering the ground around them both as Ryan swears and reloads – Jeremy tries to cover him as best he can but his accuracy is off and all he can do is really scare them a little.

Ryan tries a couple more rockets but they don’t break the ranks by any significant amount – Jeremy’s running low on ammo clips, panicking silently as he drops his empty one and slides in his last. Sixty bullets. What seems like six hundred cops.

Jeremy’s _really_ hoping Jack’s coming with that chopper evac.

Ryan loads in a rocket – his last one, by Jeremy’s count, and he hold his breath as Ryan shuffles into position, ready to pop up and fire. He trades a look with Jeremy, his face paint smeared across his cheek and blurred into a barely-recognisable skull, his jacket scraped and torn across the shoulder.

Ryan stands up – and _up_ , and all the way and Jeremy _knows_ he’s not wearing armour and immediately hears fire open across the street, early bullet dinging across the car and shattering the rest of the windshield and Ryan fires, smoke and gunpowder and bullets still hurtling towards them, and from an alleyway much much closer to them Jeremy sees a couple SWAT agents step out and take aim –

Jeremy takes whatever distraction the rocket gives and sprints over to push Ryan down, out of the way of the closer bullets and Ryan goes _scrambling_ back into the other alley, pushed out of cover –

The bullet hits Jeremy hard in the side, right into his heart if he wasn’t wearing the armour, but the blow winds him nonetheless, pain _screeching_ through his ribs as he collapses to his hands and knees behind the car, his SMG spinning out of his grip. His blood pounds in his ears, painpain _agonyagony_ ripping through him like a lance when he shifts to sit instead – a broken rib, he thinks, knows, it’s not his first – and he glances over at Ryan, who looks panicked, wide-eyed.

Ryan unsheathes his pistol and twists out to down the two SWAT agents, pulls back into cover and looks at Jeremy again. He presses a hand to his ear – the comms, Jeremy knows, his own crackling in his ear but no one’s speaking to him just yet. Ryan nods to the voice Jeremy can’t hear.

And then Ryan turns tail and disappears down the alley with no glance back and Jeremy hates the stupid stinging in his eyes as he presses a hand to his side, bleeding where the skin broke from the force of the bullet, tips his head back against the underside of the car and waits.

There’s a desperate, longing hope still tucked behind his teeth, that the crew won’t just leave him to bleed out in the middle of a road, but it all drains away when he sees Jack’s chopper lurch away in the distance, the staticky sound of cheering and whooping filling his comm.

In a burst of anger, Jeremy rips his comm out, tossing it to the side and hatin _ghating_ the tears that burn at his eyes. But well.

He’s disposable.

This isn’t the first time he’s been left for dead.

Jeremy knows how this goes. He’s just glad that this time he doesn’t have to pluck bullets out of his own back. That’s what the armour’s for.

Minutes pass. Long, tense minutes where the gunfire stops and Jeremy dreads the crunch of bootsteps, but none come. Sirens wail in the distance.

Jeremy stops hoping. Stops wishing. Lets the tears simmer and spill a bit if only to get the residue of rocket smoke out of his eyes, wash away the image of Ryan turning his back and leaving but he knows it’ll follow him for months. Just like the last person did. And the one before. And the one before –

Jeremy clenches a fist, grunts when he presses on his wound. He can’t breathe exactly right – too much pain too much ache and his ribs fell like they’ll splinter with every deep inhale.

Slowly, Jeremy gathers himself up. Recovers his SMG and the fifty-nine bullets he has left, leans against the car and mentally prepares himself to get up and run for cover. He has no idea how many cops are still at the end of the street. He doesn’t want to know.

Jeremy bends a knee up, ready to push himself up to run, and a rusty van comes screeching around the corner, meets with _immediate_ bullets from behind Jeremy and it heads right towards him and he can’t move, he _can’t_ –

The van spins in a sharp 180 and skids to a stop mere feet in front of Jeremy, and the back doors bang open and a hand shoots out, and – and _Ryan_ looks down at him, his paint smudged and cheek bruised and a thrilled glint in his eyes, and Jeremy doesn’t hesitate to clasp their hands together.

Ryan’s stronger than he seems when he bodily hauls Jeremy in, yelling at the driver to go as he roughly stumble back onto one of the bench seats with Jeremy in tow, sitting him down before struggling to the swinging back doors and shutting them, locking them with an effort as bullets ping off the sides and back and the van swerves around another corner.

“Fucking shot up my windshield!” Michael shouts from the front – Jeremy looks over to see Michael lift a gun and smash out his shattered windshield with it, grumbling to himself as he spins the van down another corner.

“You – You came back,” Jeremy says while Ryan plops down next to him, hands immediately shoving off Jeremy’s jacket and plucking at the armour straps.

“Of course we did,” Ryan answers simply, pausing in his un-Velcroing to look at Jeremy. The van bumps over a pothole and Michael swears.

“Would have been easier to just leave me,” Jeremy points out. “Now you have to lose the road cops.”

“We’re a crew, we stick together,” Ryan says, deftly pulling apart the armour and tugging it over Jeremy’s head and off. “We can handle a few cops.”

“Yeah, but – but you could have _died_ , doing that – ”

“We’re not just leaving you for dead, Jeremy,” Ryan snaps, and sighs through his nose as his tone gentles once more. “We’re not – _I’m_ not leaving you for dead.”

Silence settles for a moment while Jeremy just – blinks, and stares, and Ryan stays focused on his task, urging Jeremy’s arm up to look at his shirt and tear it from the seam to expose the wound – Jeremy hisses, and shifts, and obediently stays still while Ryan cleans him up with the scraps of cloth, presses gently and winces when Jeremy does.

“It’s broken,” Jeremy says. Ryan nods.

“Did you get hit anywhere else?” Ryan asks. Jeremy shakes his head. Looks down. Swallows as Ryan lowers his arm again.

“I thought – I saw the chopper leave,” Jeremy says while the van barrels over the bridge, traffic roaring and honking around them.

“Gavin got stabbed, Jack had to pull him and Geoff out early,” Ryan says.

“Badly?” Jeremy asks. Ryan scoffs.

“Thigh,” he says. “He’ll be fine.”

“I think they gave up!” Michael cheers from the front, squinting in his rearview mirrors. “I’ll make the loop anyway, then head back – how’re you, Jeremy?”

“I’m fine, yeah,” Jeremy calls back, smiling when Michael whoops in response.

The van slows down as they make a circuit through Vinewood, thoroughly losing any tail they might have had over the bridge, and Jeremy doesn’t make any move to put his armour back on, even thought he feels almost _too_ light without it.

The faintest touch hovers over the back of his hand and startles him – a moment later Ryan boldly rests his hand over Jeremy’s on the seat, hesitantly curls their fingers together and coughs when Jeremy looks at him.

Jeremy bumps Ryan’s shoulder with his own and carefully squeezes his fingers, a new kind of relief flooding him when Ryan smiles, and shares a look with him that’s soft around the edges.

They’ll have to talk about it later, Jeremy knows, but for now he enjoys the simple comfort, holding hands all the back way to the penthouse.

\-- 

They don’t end up talking about it before the end of the night, after they’re all bandaged up and Gavin’s telling tales about his own injury that conflict with Geoff’s account and there’s a video game loaded up and drinks on the table.

Jeremy’s chest still hurts when he laughs, so he’s not drinking and staying as still as he can – which is easy with Ryan sitting right beside him, solid and warm and easily drawing him into light conversation as Jack tosses bags of popcorn to everyone. And it’s comfortable, and peaceful, and maybe a simmer of something unresolved between Jeremy and the man next to him that maybe he tentatively wants to explore and definitely should talk about –

But Ryan laughs, and casually drapes an arm over Jeremy’s shoulders, and smiles softly at him when Jeremy glances over at him, so easily warm and familiar it makes Jeremy’s chest ache with more than just a broken rib.

And so, in a bold move Jeremy never would have made months ago, he reaches up and tangles his hand with the one dangling over his shoulder.

And in an even bolder move, one that makes his palms sweat as much as they did at the top of that Ferris wheel, he leans in to kiss Ryan’s cheek.

Ryan colours attractively and stumbles over his next breath, his eyes flicking to Jeremy and holding his nervous gaze with a sort of overwhelming fondness that melts Jeremy’s apprehensions away.

Ryan squeezes his hand, cracks the shyest smile Jeremy’s ever seen from him, and leans in closer.

Jeremy grins, and squeezes back.

And in the loud cacophony of the Fakes, amidst their rowdy chatter and boisterous laughter, something throat-clenchingly close to _home_ settles on Jeremy’s shoulders.

It’s a much more welcome weight than body armour. 


End file.
